


Gimme Shelter (A Kiss Away)

by kristophine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, background nat/maria, extensive discussion of what it's like to own tiny annoying dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristophine/pseuds/kristophine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You need a friend.”</p><p>“Funny,” said Bruce, frowning into the screen. “Here I thought I had one, who wasn’t helping me recalibrate the lasers.”</p><p>“You need a different kind of friend,” said Natasha, leaning down and drumming her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Someone small. Furry.”</p><p>“I thought we talked about you not trying to set me up, ever again.”</p><p>“Not a person. You need a dog.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gimme Shelter (A Kiss Away)

“You need a friend.”

“Funny,” said Bruce, frowning into the screen. “Here I thought I had one, who wasn’t helping me recalibrate the lasers.”

“You need a different kind of friend,” said Natasha, leaning down and drumming her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Someone small. Furry.”

“I thought we talked about you not trying to set me up, ever again.”

“Not a person. You need a dog.”

“Well, that’s marginally better,” he mumbled. He nudged the alignment. “Think that’ll work?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I don’t want this to blow.”

“That’s half the fun,” said Natasha. “Come with me to the shelter. We’ll find you a friend who never gets tired of watching you sulk.”

“I don’t— _sulk._ ”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t need a dog.”

 

A few weeks later, when they were being corralled for a department meeting but it hadn’t started yet, he said, “I’ve been running lately.”

Natasha said, “Mmm hmm,” in the tone of voice of someone who was paying no attention whatsoever.

“It might be nice to have company.”

“I am not running with you.”

“No, I mean, I was thinking about what you said.”

She glanced up from stirring sugar into her coffee. “Oh, about a dog?”

“Yeah. I know there are a lot of really active dogs that end up in shelters.”

“You could take it running with you! There you go. You’ve talked yourself into it.”

“I don’t know. I mean, it would end up alone a lot of the time.”

“Bruce. You can _certainly_ take some of your work home with you. Besides, if you run it hard enough in the morning and evening, it will be docile as lamb during the day.”

“I’m thinking about it, that’s all I’m saying.”

 

The next time she was helping him adjust the field parameters, he said, “It also wouldn’t hurt to have some extra security.”

“A dog?”

“Yeah. A Rottweiler or something. I know the aggressive breeds—or at least the breeds with that reputation, you know—end up in shelters. And they’d be good to run with.”

“If you want help finding the dog, just let me know.”

“I still haven’t made up my mind.”

She sent him about eighty dog memes after that, until he finally gave in and said, “All right. What’s a good place? Ethical?”

 

When they walked in the door, there was a chorus of barking, some meowing, and Bruce was pretty sure he could hear some more exotic noises mixed in with it—some sort of deep croaking, high chirps.

He squinted toward the back, where some of the larger enclosures were barely visible. No _way_ was that an alpaca. No way. He turned quickly back to the desk, where Natasha was charming the grim-faced but gorgeous brunette behind the desk who’d gone through Bruce’s paperwork.

“Well, Maria,” Natasha was saying, after a quick glance down at the nametag, “I _would_ love to adopt, but I’m actually here for moral support. Bruce here is looking for a dog.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—she was doing it long and wavy and dark red again, after going straight and lighter for a while. She turned on a full-wattage smile. “Somebody who would enjoy running with him and be good apartment security.”

“Apartment. Hmm.” Maria’s voice was a little chilly.

“I was thinking maybe a Rottweiler,” said Bruce.

“Well, we’ll see.” Okay, that was positively _glacial._ “A larger dog may not be a good fit for a smaller place. Let’s start by introducing you to some dogs that might work.”

Bruce was ready to protest—he knew what he wanted!—but he closed his mouth again when Natasha raised her eyebrows at him meaningfully, her back to Maria.

“Sure,” he said instead. “That sounds great.”

They were heading into the back when a voice rang out behind them. “Maria! Light of my life! Song of my heart! Where’s Rolo?”

Maria actually cracked a grin at that. “Tony,” she said, turning back, and Bruce followed her movement, “Rolo’s out getting walked, which you’d _know_ if you ever looked at the schedule.”

“Why would I, when you have the schedule in your beautiful brain?” The guy who was talking—Tony—was smiling. He had artfully-disarranged dark hair, and big brown eyes, _puppy dog eyes,_ really, and he was wearing a tight t-shirt that had a picture of a dog wearing a cone sitting on an old-timey phonograph like it was the bell. His jeans were riding low on his hips.

“He’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

“He will if it’s Jane doing the walking. If it’s Darcy it’ll take her forever.” Tony stuck out his hand to Bruce. “Hi, I’m Tony.”

“Bruce.” He shook. Tony’s grip was firm but not too tight.

“Here to find a new love of your life?”

Bruce quirked a corner of his mouth. “Something like that.”

“Well, you picked the right place. Don’t suppose we can interest you in an alpaca? Beeby’s eating us out of house and home.”

Bruce found himself laughing a little without quite meaning to. “I don’t think my landlord would approve.”

“Ah, probably not, probably not. What’ve you got on the schedule for him?” Tony asked Maria.

“I was going to show him that little guy who came in last week.”

“Nemo? Nah, nah. Nemo’s not right for you.” Tony sized up Bruce, not unlike an artist contemplating a canvas, and then snapped his fingers and said, “Got it. Come on.”

“I don’t know why I bother pretending I work here,” muttered Maria behind them, but she sounded fond despite it.

“I’m a genius, Hill, give it up!” shouted Tony over his shoulder. To Bruce he added, “I have a gut feeling about this.”

When he swung open the door—plexiglass, with ventilation holes wide enough that the fresh air would circulate nonstop, into kennels that were vertically stacked but large and obviously easy to clean, light and bright—Bruce had to frown at the dog inside.

“I don’t know,” Bruce said. “I was picturing something a little… bigger.”

“He’s got a big spirit!” Tony scooped the peculiar-looking little mutt out of the kennel easily, with no fear, and dropped it at Bruce’s feet. “Come on, just say hi.”

The dog couldn’t have been more than fifteen, twenty pounds, soaking wet. It was covered in stiff bristly hair. It was looked like it was part-terrier, but what parts would have been open to debate. Snaggle-teeth stuck out of its lower jaw, pugnaciously.

It took one look at Bruce and charged forward, growling what it probably imagined was a terrifying roar, and attacked his shoe.

He stared down at it.

It worried the tongue of his shoe, glaring up at him, making direct eye contact.

“Hi,” he said.

It said, “Rrrrrrrrrr,” and tried to eat a shoelace.

Natasha said, with deep and obvious amusement, “Is this the kind of killer you were looking for?”

At the word _killer,_ its head jerked up and it fixed its beady eyes on hers.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” she said.

It returned its attention to Bruce. It went after the hem of his pants with its little pointy teeth.

“Killer?” said Bruce. It stopped again and stared up at him.

“Aw, see,” said Tony, beaming. “It’s meant to be.”

Bruce knelt down and said to it, _sotto voce,_ “You want to come home with me? Fight my shoes?”

Killer leapt into his arms with a full-tilt tackle. He barely caught the dog in time to keep Killer from falling and got an eyeful of the equipment; luckily, Killer was already neutered, one less thing to worry about.

“Okay,” said Bruce. “Okay. I know when I’m—”

Killer licked a wet stripe up the side of his face. Tony was laughing helplessly.

Bruce sighed heavily.

As they were getting ready to go, Tony leaned out from the back and waved. “Have fun with Killer!” he shouted. “He’ll probably be good at running! Fueled by pure rage!”

“That makes two of us,” Bruce called back.

Natasha was looking at Tony with a speculative expression. She let Bruce catch her at it. He frowned, finished scribbling out the check ( _God,_ when you said you were going to _rescue_ a dog he didn’t know that meant buying it solid gold boots or whatever that much money was for), and realized on his way out the door that he needed to get supplies.

On their way to the pet store, Natasha said, “Tony was cute.”

“Didn’t know that was on your radar.”

“It’s on yours.”

Bruce grunted in response, staring ahead out the windshield while Natasha tickled Killer under the chin. Of course Killer loved Natasha. He sat perfectly still in Natasha’s lap and watched her with loving devotion.

“You could always drop by later,” she said. “Let them know how he’s settling in. Say hi.”

“I could. Or I could not do that.”

She shrugged eloquently. “Clint will want to meet Killer. Won’t he? Won’t he want to meet you?” she added, giving Killer a little scratch behind the ears. He beamed up at her.

“Movie night?”

“Sounds good. We’ll come by later.”

“Text first.”

He found what he needed at the pet store, including a brand of food Natasha pointed out that cost a ludicrous amount.

“You’re not spending it on yourself,” she said. “At least spend it on somebody who’ll appreciate it.”

Bruce rolled his eyes at her. “I doubt Killer cares.”

Killer was dancing with anger on his hind feet yipping and snapping at a plastic display dog wearing a sweater. All the real dogs in the store were keeping their distance, glancing warily sidelong.

“He’s _so_ like you,” she said, smirking.

He got Killer home, dropping Natasha off along the way. Killer seemed less than impressed, until he spotted a shirt Bruce had carelessly tossed on the floor, at which point he took off like a shot and was busily shredding it before Bruce could get to him to take it away. By that time, it seemed pointless.

He dropped into a chair, propping his chin on his fist, and stared at Killer as Killer roamed the apartment, getting the lay of the land.

“Well,” said Bruce, “at least anybody breaking in will lose an ankle.”

Killer barked back at him emphatically.

 

Clint and Natasha came over with beers for movie night.

“I was thinking _Cujo,_ ” said Clint with a straight face, dropping down to a crouch to receive Killer’s copious wet greetings. Great. That made two people Killer instantly loved better than Bruce.

Bruce said, “No. How about _Two Lives?_ ”

“Is that the Norwegian one you’ve been trying to talk us into watching?” said Natasha. “Let’s. It sounds interesting.”

Clint huffed into Killer’s fur. “My idea was good too,” he said to Killer. Killer yipped back brightly.

They settled on the couch, Killer perching on Natasha’s knee. “I’m a little offended,” said Bruce.

“He just knows who deserves respect,” said Natasha, giving Killer a one-handed belly rub as he flopped over and lifted one front leg.

“Now I’m _definitely_ offended.”

“Not my fault you can’t handle the truth.”

“How’s the business?” he said to Clint, who shrugged.

“You know how it is. Parents getting way too invested.”

“Of course they do,” said Natasha. “By the way, I got her number.”

“What? Whose?”

“Maria, from the shelter. We’re going out next week.”

“Good for you,” said Bruce, sincerely impressed. “She seemed a little frosty.”

“To you, because you thought you could keep a big dog in this little place.”

“Hey, it’s a good location.”

“Dogs don’t care. Killer? Do you?” she said to the wad of dryer lint in her lap. “Do you care about being walking distance to Daddy’s work?”

“Oh, God,” said Bruce, recoiling. “Don’t _say_ that.”

“What? Daddy?” She laughed. “Duly noted.”

“I’m nobody’s _daddy,_ ” he said, with lingering revulsion.

Clint opened his mouth. Bruce whipped a pillow at him before he could say anything. Clint caught it easily and jammed it behind his head, stretching out at an ever-less-realistic angle on the floor.

“I could ask her about Tony,” said Natasha.

“Don’t. I don’t need the distraction.”

“Really?” she asked, deeply skeptical. “Because I think anything that distracts you from this,” waving a judgmental hand around the room, “has to be good.”

“I’m serious,” said Bruce. “I’ve got to get this paper written, and then I’ve got about six hundred finals to grade, and I just don’t have time to chase—I don’t have time for it.”

“I think he was into you.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m right,” she added, casually going for a handful of popcorn.

“Shhhh. I think we’re going to find out—is she Stasi?”

 

He was determined that Killer would sleep in the correctly sized, appropriately cushioned bed on the floor.

That determination was rapidly fading. It was three in the morning. Three in the _goddamned motherfucking morning_ and Killer had his paws up on the side of the bed, making a nonstop, high-pitched noise that was somehow like a whine, but _much more annoying._

“Fine, you little asshole,” said Bruce, and he scooped Killer up into the bed with him. Killer grunted and snorted in happiness, turned around three times, and ended up shoving his butt directly into the side of Bruce’s face. Bruce squawked in outrage. Killer grumbled in contentment and wiggled his butt against Bruce’s face harder.

It took a solid twenty minutes of negotiation before Killer could be convinced to sleep with his butt literally _anywhere except Bruce’s face._

Killer’s bed on the floor went conspicuously unused after that. He greeted Bruce at the door every evening. Bruce found himself starting to leave campus earlier and earlier to get home and see the one creature who expressed zero hesitation about being glad to see him. If that included leaving paw prints on his pant legs (from what? what the hell had he gotten into today? what was that _smell?_ ), that was something he could live with.

           

Natasha looked smug after her date with Maria.

“You look smug,” said Bruce when he dropped into her office to use her good stapler. “Did that grant come through? Or is this a different kind of smug?”

“Different kind. But yes, grant came through.”

“I _see._ ” He grinned at her lopsidedly. “And will you be seeing the lovely Maria again?”

“I think so.” Natasha smirked at him, but there was a softness in her face that made it less cutting than usual. “You know, she had some suggestions for dog parks you could take Killer to.”

Bruce made a face. “He’s such a menace in public.” But he was a comforting presence at Bruce’s heels on runs; he was fast for something with such short legs. Even if he did sometimes feint to try and catch a goddamn motherfucking eighteen-wheeler, like the compacts just weren’t enough _challenge._

“He’d probably like it. If he was a real asshole to the other dogs you could always just pick him up and take him home. But wouldn’t he appreciate a leash-free run? Chase a ball, try to murder a squirrel?”

“I’m not sure he wouldn’t succeed.” Bruce grimaced. “Last thing I need is a disemboweled squirrel.”

“You know he wouldn’t be merciful, either.”

“Yeah.”

“But seriously. Give it a try.”

“Fine, fine. Text me the parks. If he can survive it without picking any fights he can go.”

 

It turned out Killer not only survived the dog park, he actually made friends. Never the well-behaved and attractive dogs, of course. The whippet being walked by the fashion-plate, the brindle bulldog that could do a whole series of tricks in a row, the glossy pointer brushed to within an inch of its life by its handsome and adoring owner. No. No, Killer preferred the dogs that drooled and farted, that were missing ears or eyes or limbs. Killer got along fabulously with the huge, unidentifiable mutt that shambled through the park like the creature from the black lagoon. He briefly tried to hump, and was humped in turn, by a toothless pitbull-Pekingese mix (Bruce asked the owner, “How did that _happen?_ ” and got a shrug in return) with a permanently crooked tail. Killer seemed to have an unerring instinct for the dogs with the truly unsettling owners; people who moved in clouds of body odor and distraction, and who thought it was charming that Killer was trying to make friends, and who therefore felt compelled to get into Bruce’s personal space and coo at him about his “little bitty friend, there” while he huddled ever-deeper into his windbreaker, jamming in his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t see his fists clenching.

The dog park was hell. But he’d already bought the ball-chucker for Killer, and Killer _loved_ it, went tearing after it like a deranged bat. So the dog parks started to turn into a regular thing. He tried out a couple of the places Natasha had texted him, and they ended up mostly settling on a park not far from their house.

They were out there one Saturday morning, nice weather, bright and warm but not too hot, when he heard a familiar voice bellowing, “Sparky! Sparky! Goddamn it!”

He turned around in time to see Tony from the shelter running after a dog wearing a contraption that looked like it hoisted its hind legs up and let it run on wheels instead.

“Sparky!” yelled Tony again, finally catching up to it toward the stand of oft-peed-on trees. “Come here! That strap needs—dammit, Sparky!”

“I don’t think he’s going to respond to a logical explanation,” Bruce called over to him.

Tony’s head jerked up and whipped around, and when he saw Bruce he smiled. It spread over his face like sunshine. He was wearing a fake band t-shirt that said “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra, 1991” with a picture of Picard shredding on a guitar and that was just frankly uncalled-for.

“Hey! Bruce!” Tony said, still fiddling with the straps on Sparky’s wheels. “Don’t suppose you could give me a hand here?”

“I could probably manage.” Bruce went over to them and dropped to one knee to hold Sparky in place while Tony worked at the complicated apparatus. “Is Sparky yours, or is he with the shelter?”

“Uh, neither, actually. He’s a friend’s, I’m taking a look at the ambulation situation.”

“Oh, really?” Bruce raised his eyebrows. “You know much about—” His one-handed gesture took in Sparky’s wheels. “These things?”

Tony laughed. “A little.”

“Is that what you help out with at the shelter? I just figured you volunteered there.”

“Oh, you know, I do a little bit of everything. Keep Hill happy. That’s a full-time job.”

“I think Natasha’s volunteering for that,” said Bruce.

“At the shelter? Oh! Oh, no, you meant—yeah, I thought she seemed suspiciously chipper.”

“They’re on week, what, three? Four?”

“I wish I knew! Maria plays it close to the vest. She doesn’t tell me anything she doesn’t have to.”

“Natasha doesn’t _tell_ me, but she lets me guess.”

“So you two aren’t—” Tony made a little gesture. Bruce shook his head.

“No, no,” he said. “Natasha and me go way back. Colleagues. Sometimes she steals my good coffee.”

“Sounds like Maria’s type.”

Tony’s hands had gone still on the straps. Bruce nodded down at them. “Got them adjusted?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, as good as they’re going to get today, anyway. He really needs something a little more permanent. This is a half-assed solution. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing—or an amputation, God forbid—but I think we can do better.” Tony stood up, Bruce rising a second after him, brushing the leaf litter from his knee. “So I take it that you and Killer are still coexisting peacefully?”

“For the most part.” Bruce looked up as Killer, on cue, came bounding over with—“oh, _Jesus,_ what _is_ that? What did you _find?_ Spit it out! Spit it out!”

Tony burst out laughing as Killer hacked out something that was either a dead rodent or a toupee. Bruce stared at it in abject horror.

“They get into mischief, don’t they?” said Tony fondly.

“There’s _mischief_ and then there’s _rabies._ Thank God he’s had his shots.”

“Have you had yours, though?” When Bruce turned to stare at him, Tony cracked up. “Just kidding! You’re fine. Probably.”

Killer pawed at Tony’s leg, whining, dropping the ball and nosing at it.

“And then they do that,” said Tony, leaning down to get the ball, which Killer immediately snatched back up. Tony didn’t seem put off; he just pried open Killer’s mouth to retrieve the ball. He handed it back to Bruce. Bruce put it in the chucker and gave it a mighty heave, and Killer went after it at top speed, cornering viciously on the dry grass.

“What, be cute?”

“Yeah. Push right to the limit of human endurance and then try to make it up to you. And the hell of it is, they can get away with it.”

Bruce sighed. “That’s… accurate.”

“So what do you do? I’m guessing it’s not dog shelters. You seem like a serious guy. Something important.”

“More like boring. I’m a professor.”

“Oh, that’s cool! Of what?”

“Theoretical astrophysics.”

That got Tony’s attention; he looked back from where he’d been watching Killer take off. “What, really? That’s not something you hear every day.”

“Well, I mean. I do. But that’s because I work with a whole batch of them.”

“Is that what Natasha does? Are you guys _astrophysics_ colleagues?”

“Sort of. She does medical physics.”

“Making the next generation scanner? MRIs are going to be so passé. I don’t know why, I just assumed she was in the experimental wing.”

“She is, you’re right. Tinkering, mostly.”

“That’s really cool! So do you get to play with any fun toys? Blow things up? Lasers, _please_ tell me there’s lasers.”

Bruce laughed, painfully. “Every once in a while. But I spend most of my time grading.”

“Ouch!” Tony made a face in sympathy. “That sounds awful. I don’t envy you that part at all, sitting through my _own_ thought process is hard enough, let alone anyone else’s. Oh, shit. Sparky! Good seeing you, anyway!”

Tony took off after Sparky, who was running like hell, before Bruce had a chance to ask what Tony did when he wasn’t at the shelter.

Not that he had time for that. He hadn’t been—he’d been truthful with Natasha; he didn’t have time.

Although that felt like a less compelling argument when he was watching Tony go after Sparky, all the way to the other side of the park, laughing while he ran and shouted curses.

He left before Tony could loop back. He’d said goodbye, basically.

 

“So those parks,” said Bruce.

Natasha blinked at him with pure innocence that he didn’t believe for a hot second. “Hm?”

“You didn’t, by any chance, ask Maria which ones Tony frequented?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Natasha. “Tony doesn’t even have his own dog.”

“He was at one this weekend. With Sparky. A dog with wheels.”

“That sounds adorable.” Natasha put her chin on her hands and looked at him with concern. “Are you having delusions of persecution? We can find you a specialist for that.”

Bruce sat down with a sigh next to her desk, strewn with papers—even Natasha couldn’t keep her desk clear, though she tried, black filing cabinets lining the office. “He seemed good with Sparky.”

“He volunteers at a shelter. Of course he’s good with dogs.”

“How’s Maria?”

Natasha smiled. “Cute as a button.”

“I’m having trouble imagining that.”

“You don’t see her in the same context.”

“I should hope not. I mean, for one thing, you’d kill me.”

“Personally.” Natasha was grinning without her eyes.

“Do you do that on purpose?”

“What?”

“Whatever the opposite of smizing is.”

“You know the word ‘smize.’”

“I have a passing familiarity with popular culture.”

“From the last decade, but all right. You get partial credit.”

He sighed deeply, rubbing at his eyes. “You want to go out and get wasted tonight?”

“It’s a Monday.”

“Didn’t you just write an exam?”

“Yes.”

“How did your students do?”

She leaned back, folding her arms, and then nodded briskly. “Point taken. I have vodka in my desk.”

“You Russians.”

She shrugged, pulling the bottle out. No glasses. “We have nothing but our potatoes. It makes us… creative.” She handed it to him for the first drink.

“I’m surprised you still like it.” He handed it back, mouth tingling. He was taking the subway, anyway, and so was she.

“It’s a little like home. Besides, it’s better than what we made.”

“Wait, what you _made?_ ”

She shrugged, taking a pull off the bottle. “Everyone back home makes their own. You know yours is shit, but you trade it with the neighbor’s, thinking maybe theirs will be _less_ shit. It never is.”

“That’s kind of hilarious.”

“The triumph of human optimism.” She poked at a pile of tests with one manicured fingernail, frowning at it in disgust. “How did I end up here?”

“You wanted to be tenure-track?”

“Ugh.” She took another drink.

“I think it’s my turn for that.”

She passed it over wordlessly.

Once he’d started to feel it a little, a sort of soft flush under his collar, he said, “Tell me the truth, though. Did you send me to Tony’s park on purpose?”

She grinned at him, twirling a lock of hair around a finger. It was an artificial, stylized move. “Do you really think I do anything by accident?”

He paused, then shook his head, smiling down at the desk.

“You should talk to him,” she said. “Get to know him a little.”

“I really—I just don’t think I have time. And it’s not like we have a lot in common. We like dogs, I guess.”

She shrugged and changed the subject, to the project they were starting to write the proposals for, which felt a little harder to follow after the vodka. Though she seemed to be doing fine.

He ended up walking with her to the subway stop, drunk enough that the air felt crisp instead of just cool in the darkening evening. “Are you seeing Maria soon?”

“This weekend. Making time for it.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“It is.” Her cheeks were a little pink. She could, on any given day, drink him under the table—she claimed her upbringing had left her with a liver of steel—but tonight she’d probably gone through enough to be feeling it herself.

He gave her a one-armed hug when they finally headed to their trains. She squeezed back briefly.

Killer barked at him reproachfully when he came in the door. “Ah, come on,” he said. “Daddy had a rough day.” A second later he heard himself and was profoundly grateful that Natasha hadn’t been there to hear it.

Killer didn’t care about the hard day, anyway. Killer danced with keening anxiety in front of the door until Bruce got off his ass and picked up the leash, and then the keen turned into a full-fledged howl of desperation.

“Jesus,” he said to Killer, “settle down, settle down, we’re _going_ for walkies, I _promise,_ ” and at the word “walkies” Killer went absolutely apeshit and would not calm down until he was five blocks into the walk that Bruce had meant to be quick.

Bruce hadn’t really intended to walk back to the park near their house, but Killer was obviously full of energy, and it was a good walk, even if the park would be deserted by this time in the evening.

It was deserted. No one was there.

He puttered for a couple of minutes, letting Killer sniff deeply along the edges of the bushes, before he headed back.

That night Killer sat on the bed next to Bruce’s pillow and stared at Bruce through the fringe of fur that flopped over his eyes, like Jack McCoy’s eyebrows on Law & Order reruns.

“I feel like you’re judging me,” Bruce told him. “Don’t bother.”

Killer woofed under his breath.

“Or is it—are you still hungry?” He sighed. “You know you have a special diet from the vet.”

That word, Killer knew; his eyes got even more hangdog.

“Not that you have to _go_ to, oh, hell.” Bruce turned on the television and watched a couple of minutes of Jeopardy before glancing over to find Killer fast asleep next to him.

It was always easier to sleep, listening to Killer breathe, hitching snores and whines in the darkness. The occasionally little shuffle of dreaming legs.

 

Bruce realized, Thursday night, that he’d run out of the fancy, expensive kibble, and if he showed up home with no dinner Killer might actually make good on his repeated implied threats to eat Bruce starting with the ankles.

He was fucking tired. It had been a long week, full of meetings with hysterical students who didn’t understand why they were failing (“Well,” he’d said to one of them, trying not to sound like he felt, “you never came to class, you didn’t show up for the midterm, and you didn’t do any of the discussion problems; that might be it” only to set off a fresh wave of tears from _Chad_ the frat bro in salmon chinos), news about budget cuts he hadn’t seen coming, and finding out that Selvig was going on sabbatical and therefore the only other person who made the department _bearable_ was going to be getting fucking tan on the Riviera. He felt like shit, he knew he looked like shit, and his dog was going to trip him and eat his corpse if he didn’t come home with dog food that went for more than Bruce’s own dinner.

He stopped at the yuppie pet store that wasn’t _that_ far out of his way. They had little containers of wheatgrass you could get for your cat to, he didn’t know, pretend it was on the savannah in or something, and weird black leather mannequins for the dog sweaters that ended up looking like a prop from a doggie S &M club.

He was staring at the wall of food, trying to remember whether it was the Forest Fresh Harvest (with the picture of dancing yams among woodland creatures—were yams even _from_ the forest?) or Happy Homes Ham (he felt like he probably would have remember a name that stupid).

The doorbell tinkled, and one of the obnoxiously chipper clerks sang out, “Hi, sir! Can I help you find anything?”

“No, no,” said a familiar voice. “I know what I’m here for.”

Bruce turned around.

“Tony?” he said, even though Tony was right there in front of him, wearing a black jacket and sneakers. And if Bruce felt like shit, Tony sure looked it. There were bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.

Tony’s head jerked up, and he stared at Bruce like he’d been caught doing something. After a second, he shook his head and forced out an unconvincing laugh. “Bruce? Oh, hey, what are the odds. How’s Killer?”

“He’s good. Just realized I ran out of food on the way home from work.”

Tony shook his head again minutely, like he was trying to clear it. “Yeah? You live around here?”

“Yeah, not far.” Bruce hesitated. “You want to—you look like you could use a break. You want to get a beer? Brew pub about two blocks from here’s not bad.”

Tony dredged up a laugh for that, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. “I wish. But I’m on a deadline. Got to just, just get the basics, and go.”

“What kind of deadline?”

Tony sighed. “Got a contract coming due. You want to get that beer after Friday, I’m all ears. Here.” He pulled out a card and handed it to Bruce, without making eye contact. “I’m at the office most of the time anyway. Got a pitch to make the hot second this one’s done.”

“Okay,” said Bruce slowly. Tony glanced up past him, grabbed a flat of cans off the shelf, and turned away.

“Have a good one,” said Tony, and he was up at the register while Bruce was still flipping the card between his fingers.

After Tony banged back out the door, Bruce looked down. In neat black script in a tidy, businesslike font he didn’t recognize, it said

_Stark Designs_

With a phone number. The logo looked like an abstract circle or something, maybe a wheel.

He flipped it back and forth between his fingers, like a pencil, like a magician’s trick, before finally turning back to the wall of dog food.

What the hell. He just grabbed the Forest Fresh Harvest. If Killer hated it, he could choke it down for one night until Bruce could get something else.

Killer didn’t give a shit; Killer ate it like he was starving to death, instead of a well-fed little asshole dog who would bark continuously from the minute Bruce walked in until he got dinner and/or walkies.

“Ran into somebody tonight,” Bruce told Killer. Killer made appreciative, guttural noises over his bowl, flinging bits of stray kibble and wet food everywhere.

He pulled the card back out of his pocket and stared at it. Should he—maybe he should look them up? Looked like some kind of design firm, would explain the deadline, creative work seemed like it was usually like that, run run run go go go to the next deadline. And so Tony would come work with the dogs at the shelter, probably appreciate getting to hang out with animals that wouldn’t judge.

“I shouldn’t get involved with a workaholic.” Killer had finished the actual food and was making deep, snorting, gurgling slurping noises while he tried to get the last remnants of flavor off the bowl. “I mean, I’m one. It’s just… it’s a bad idea.”

Killer finally finished eating to his satisfaction and turned to Bruce, with a smear of disgusting wet food on his nose. He reared back and started trying to lick his own nose to get it. He was not entirely unsuccessful.

“You know where that nose has been?” said Bruce, and sighed. “I guess if licking your own urine off grass at the park is good enough for you, you don’t care.”

Killer definitely didn’t care. He belched deeply and leapt into Bruce’s lap, and Bruce sat with him for a while, just petting that wiry fur and watching Killer’s little sides puff in and out with each breath.

 

“I heard you ran into Tony,” said Natasha the next afternoon when she ran into Bruce trying to get into the storage room that had the _good_ binder clips.

“Hm? Yeah. Do you have a key to this thing?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Bruce. Like I need a _key._ ” She pulled two bobby pins out of her hair, and in under twenty seconds she was ushering him into the closet.

“How did you—?”

“We got bored a lot in Russia. School had locks like these. Old.” She yanked on the chain for the light at the center of the room, and he started digging through the boxes for where he just knew they had the good binder clips—and while he was down here anyway, the heavy-duty staples, too. He had a Radiation Safety submission that had to go in, on hard copy, in triplicate. “So you ran into Tony.”

“Yeah, he was at the pet store. I had to get kibble.”

“Did you give him your number?”

“No,” he said, glad he was facing down into a box of file folders instead of looking at her in the light. “He seemed like he was in a hurry.”

“Did he, _by any chance,_ give you _his?”_

“Maybe. Gave me a business card.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“Going to give me shit about it?”

“Would I do such a thing?” She yanked on the chain again and the light went out.

“Hey!”

But she’d already left. At least she left the door open, so he could see where the chain was to pull.

The bastards _did_ have the heavy-duty staples. Technically it wasn’t Physics’ storage closet at all, it was Electrical Engineering’s, and he reveled a little in the victory. In fact, he just took an entire spare stapler with him, humming as he went.

 

 _After_ Friday probably didn’t _include_ Friday, so Bruce didn’t call on Friday night. He watched a movie with Killer instead. Killer fell asleep draped half over the back of the couch and half over the back of Bruce’s neck. His snoring breaths kept tickling Bruce’s ear, and sometimes his whiskers would brush up and make Bruce twitch.

Killer didn’t mind. Killer was a good sport about a lot of things.

Bruce reached up behind his head to give Killer a few scritches behind the ears, and when Killer flopped over on his side, some belly-rubs.

 

He wasn’t sure this was a good idea.

He stared at the card for a long time, Saturday afternoon, before he dialed.

“Stark Designs,” said a melodic female voice. “How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, I’m—uh, I’m calling for Tony?” He hadn’t really thought this through; if she asked _which Tony?_ he’d have no answer for her.

She must have known who he meant, though. “I’m afraid he’s in a meeting right now.”

Bruce glanced at the clock. “It’s four pm. On a Saturday.” He’d calibrated it, sure that if anyone was there, they’d be getting ready to wrap up and get the hell out.

“Well, he does keep busy,” said the woman. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you tell him—Bruce called, if he wants to meet up I’ll be at Piney’s Pitchers around eight.”

“I certainly can,” she said, more warmly.

“Great. Thanks. Good night.”

After he hung up he stared at the phone for a minute.

Well. He’d go there. He’d have a beer. And if that was all, that was all.

 

Piney’s wasn’t bad at all. They had low lighting, and wooden everything, including the paneling; it had been there since maybe the dawn of time, but the creaky old tap worked just fine, and the beer was good.

Bruce took a journal article he was a reviewer for with him, and settled in one of the empty two-person booths, spreading out the papers so he could highlight as he went. There were more errors than he’d been expecting, given how precise the title had been and how well written the abstract was, so he was only halfway through the first experimental series by the time he heard a voice say, “Hey! Bruce?”

He glanced up, grip on his pen going loose in surprise. He hadn’t really _expected_ Tony to _show,_ but there he was, practically vibrating out of his skin. He still looked like shit, but—shit in a _suit,_ a really nice suit. Jesus Christ. From the buttons at the wrist, it had to be bespoke.

“You’re all dressed up,” said Bruce, gathering up the papers and gesturing for Tony to sit across from him.

“Yeah, well.” Tony shrugged, sliding in across from him. “Helps sell the clients, you know? Give them an _image_.”

“An image of what, Gucci?”

Tony laughed. It sounded a little tinny, but not as bad as he’d sounded the other night. “Close enough. Had a client meeting today, had to spiff up a little.”

“A _little?_ That suit has to be… I don’t even want to think about it.”

Tony shrugged, looking uncomfortable, maybe off-balance. “It’s a big project. We really need them on board.”

“What kind of project?”

Tony shook his head. “No, no, no, I just got _out_ of work, you’re not dragging my poor abused brain _back_ there. How about you? What’s all the dead trees for?”

“I’m reviewing an article.”

“Looks like a lot of red ink there.”

“It’s _so bad._ ”

“Really? How bad can it be?”

Bruce picked it up, clearing his throat ostentatiously. “In Fig. 4 the translational velocity curves can be understood to mean that there is a shift in velocity that is used in generating translational force—”

“Okay, that sounds pretty bad, actually.”

Bruce shuffled them back together, marked the page with a decisive sticky-note, and slid it all back into the satchel he’d brought them in.

Tony laughed. “Man, that is one hell of a professorial look you have going on. Glasses, leather satchel. You need tweed patches on your elbows.”

“I’d rather die.”

Tony winked at him. “Bet you say that to all the boys.”

Bruce found one corner of his mouth lifting in a grudging little smile even as he rolled his eyes.

“So, did I really look that fucked up?” Tony was tapping his fingers on the table, watching them like they belonged to someone else. “That was a long day. Really fucking long.”

“It seemed like you could use a break,” said Bruce, opting diplomatically not to mention that while a certain level of stubble might enhance a jawline, there was a point at which it looked more serial killer than Bond. Tony’d shaved, anyway. Probably for whatever the pitch meeting had been.

“How’s Killer doing? Is he pining for you?”

Bruce snorted. “If anything, he’s probably destroying everything I own, one piece at a time.”

“And yet.”

“Yeah, I can’t be too mad. I knew what he was when I picked him.”

Tony smiled at him. It was a totally different smile than he usually used; it was little and flat and sardonic, nothing like the big tooth-flashing charmer he busted out most of the time. “I knew he’d worm his weird way into your heart.”

“Shh, don’t tell my students I have one. I’ve been cried on too many times this week already.”

“Figuratively or literally?”

“Literally. There was a test.”

“Wow, I take it the test was not an unqualified success for some of them?”

“The only unqualified thing in the room was them.”

“That’s cold. Also, potentially ungrammatical.”

“Fuck it. Long week.”

“Don’t I know it,” sighed Tony. “I’m going to get a drink. Be right back.”

Bruce watched while Tony walked away. In that _suit,_ which he still was not over, what kind of job did Tony do that he could afford a suit like that, which was tailored to Tony like a goddamn glove, black, a little bit of shine to it, was that a pinstripe? Maybe a real subtle pinstripe. And it was hugging Tony’s ass, outlining muscular thighs. The way Tony _walked._ It was all—Bruce shook his head a little, pulling out his phone. He had another three emails from students.

He was painstakingly tapping out unencouraging replies to them when Tony sat back down across from him, giving his suit a little flick.

“Texting?”

“Student e-mails.”

“Oh, god, you actually _respond_ to them? That’s just going to make them bolder.”

Bruce sighed. “If I don’t answer, they’ll just send me fifteen more, in increasing desperation.”

“I’ll defer to the expert. Thank God I don’t teach. I can’t imagine it. Do you really fight over corner offices, like they do on TV shows?”

“What TV shows?”

Tony shrugged. “Third Rock from the Sun?”

“Glad I’m not the only one who has a soft spot for the oldies.”

“Don’t call them that! It hasn’t been that long!”

“Anyway, yeah. We kind of do.” Bruce laughed. “When there are actual corner offices. I don’t think our department really has anything that qualifies. But the chair gets the nicest one.”

Tony’s eyes sharpened. “So what’s your research interest?”

“Really? I wasn’t kidding about it being boring.”

“Hit me.”

So Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the cool, slick wood of the table, and started to tell Tony the elevator pitch. “I’m interested in gamma radiation. It’s the—”

“Shortest wavelength, yeah, yeah,” said Tony, waving one hand carelessly. “But what do you want to do with it?”

“Natasha and I are actually talking about a collaboration on—”

“Medical imaging? How are you going to sell that, with the increased cancer risk?”

“Not on humans. We’re looking at—”

“Oh, tissue specimens?” Tony pushed his sleeves up absent-mindedly, even though the suit jacket wasn’t really made for it.

“Right, only not, like, full pathology specimens—”

“Of course not, that’d be using a sledgehammer on a—”

“Gnat, right. So we’re thinking there’s potential genetic applications.”

“That’s so cool,” said Tony. He was leaning forward onto the narrow table and Bruce was suddenly torn between the urge to keep talking shop and the realization that he was close enough to kiss Tony.

“You’re interested in this?” asked Bruce, redundantly, groping for his water. He took a sip, dropping his eyes.

Tony laughed a little. “Yeah. I mean, think about the applications. Have you thought about precise targeting for disinfection?”

“ _Thought_ about, sure. But that’s more Natasha’s department than mine. I was originally looking at whether it could be useful in detecting traces of multi-star systems through nebulae—”

“Well, of course it should be—”

“Couldn’t get the practical element of it down, though, which is when I switched to looking closer to home for applications.”

“Don’t they disown you for looking for practical applications in astrophysics? Aren’t you supposed to just be, I don’t know, listening to the celestial harmonies of the spheres?”

Bruce realized he was staring at Tony at about the same moment he realized he was smiling, and it was altogether more realization than he was really comfortable with.

They talked for a while, Bruce’s theories (some better than others), Natasha’s work, before the conversation meandered back to the shelter.

Tony’s eyes crinkled at the corners, like he was trying not to smile, and he dropped his eyes to his drink. “So how’s Killer adjusting?” said Tony, which was really just a reminder that Tony liked _dogs,_ Tony was the kind of guy who could run at the park with the dog or wear a suit or talk about science casually, like he was comfortable with it

His glass was cool and clammy in his hands, beaded with condensation. “Come over and find out,” said Bruce.

Tony’s head jerked up. “Wha—really?”

“Yeah,” said Bruce. “Really.”

It was like that first smile at the dog park all over again; growing and growing on Tony’s face, transforming it.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Tony.

Bruce knocked back the rest of his beer, and Tony threw back the rest of his, and they got up together in mutual unspoken accord.

It had gone nearly midnight while they’d been talking. The air outside still wasn’t quite cold, and the city was a little quieter around them.

“You live around here?” asked Tony.

Bruce nodded. “Just a couple of blocks that way.”

“So, uh, for real,” said Tony, “how’s Killer?”

“He’s good. Natasha has me feeding him some kind of kibble that costs an arm and a leg, and he gets a serving of wet food on top of that.”

“Sounds spoiled. That’s a good thing, I’m all in favor of spoiling the shit out of dogs. They love it.”

“Do you have one of your own?”

Tony shook his head. “Just—spend so much time at the office, I feel like I don’t really have time for one, you know?”

“Yeah.” Bruce rolled his shoulders. “I was worried I wouldn’t have time for Killer, but I’m making it work. It’s a little easier when I can do grading at home.” He glanced over at Tony and added, “I’m guessing working from home isn’t so much an option for you.”

“Yeah, not so much.” Tony huffed out a little laugh. “I wish. It would save me some late nights.”

“Killer likes walks, so he usually gets one as soon as we get home. He can be a real asshole but so far he’s been pretty well behaved in public.”

“That’s good. Does he do all right with other dogs? What about kids? It can be hard for us to judge at the shelter, we don’t really bring toddlers in just to see if they freak the dogs out. I mean, I told Maria we _should,_ for the data, but she was all ‘No, Tony,’ and ‘I’m not traumatizing children for data, Tony,’ so.”

Bruce hadn’t really realized quite how much he had to say about Killer until they got back to his apartment while he was still going on about his tiny dickface dog.

He fell silent while he unlocked the door, and Killer was _immediately_ all up in his space, front paws up on his leg, and then down, bounding around in a circle, and up again, yapping spastically. The second Killer spotted Tony he somehow went _even more_ fucking nuts until Tony scooped him up, laughing, letting Killer lick his face.

“So, you’re not starving him to death,” said Tony with a smile. Killer was whining _while_ licking.

“Not quickly, at any rate. I’m sure he has some opinions on the subject.”

Tony let Killer back down gently, and there was a weighted silence while he and Bruce looked at each other.

Then Tony said, “Okay, so this is the vibe I’m getting, stop me if I’m wrong,” and kissed Bruce. He wasn’t fucking around, either; he went right for tongue. Bruce met him halfway, sliding his hands up Tony’s sides, back down, gripping his hips.

After a few minutes of that Tony pulled back and said, “He’s watching us.”

Bruce glanced over. Killer was, indeed, perched on his haunches, watching them with clinical interest.

“Guess we should put a door between us,” said Bruce. “If you want to see the bedroom.”

“Yes, desperately, and also please take your shirt off.”

So Bruce stripped out of his coat and by the time they got into the bedroom he had his shirt mostly peeled off and Tony hung his suit jacket over the doorknob, and Bruce laughed. “You can—here, there’s a fucking chair, you can put your slacks on—”

“Are you trying to get me more naked? Because it’s working,” said Tony as he tossed his belt over the chair back. It was dark, just the light from the street coming in the window, leaving the room a dark ghostly blue.

Killer’s little nails started scrabbling at the door.

“You’re sitting this one out, asshole,” Bruce called to the door. The scrabbling intensified. Tony laughed.

“I can ignore him if you can,” he said.

“I have something pretty distracting in here.” Bruce sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Tony, _finally_ out of all of his _clothes,_ over to stand between his legs.

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” said Tony, but his voice was too low and quiet, like he was running on automatic.

“Come here.” Bruce cupped the back of Tony’s neck in his hand, and Tony leaned down to kiss him, hungry, hands kneading across Bruce’s shoulders, fingers following Bruce’s collarbones.

Tony sighed into his mouth and hitched a knee up onto the bed. “You want to fuck me?”

“Jesus,” said Bruce. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Thank God. Where’s the—?”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

“I’m not _worried,_ I just want to make sure that everything’s to specs—oh, oh God, oh.”

“There’s a process.”

Tony sighed dreamily, face-down in the pillow, as Bruce worked him open with his tongue. “Remind me,” he got out, through hitching breaths and the occasional soft gasp, “not to doubt your process.”

“Of course,” said Bruce, before going back to tonguing Tony, slow and sweet.

By the time he had Tony fisting his hands in the sheets, begging for it, he wasn’t in the mood for any more teasing. “Hey,” he said, kneeling up behind Tony. “Ready?”

“ _So fucking ready,_ you asshole,” slurred Tony, “if I’d known I was going to bed with a _sadist_ —”

So Bruce sank into him, just slow enough, he figured, and _Christ,_ it was so good, Tony was so good, and he found himself murmuring that to Tony, soft sweet nothings he would have been embarrassed by any other time. Tony made a strangled noise and pushed back into him.

He thrust into Tony, and Tony liked it a little fast, a little rough, which Bruce _loved,_ and pretty soon he was riding Tony while Tony shouted, coming all over the blankets, body jerking again and again. Bruce thrust a few more times and came, too, Tony’s ass still clenching around him, fluttering with aftershocks.

He fell face-first onto his elbows, just barely bracing himself above Tony’s back.

“God, let’s do that again sometime,” said Tony, though it came out muffled by the pillow. He’d turned his head sideways, but he still sounded drugged.

“Yeah.” Bruce managed to roll over, off him, carefully. Tony sighed.

Bruce got up; he had to toss the condom, had to hit up the mouthwash, but—he couldn’t help pausing long enough to run his hand over Tony’s beautiful ass, down to the hollow of his knee, back up into the hollow of his back.

“Mmm,” said Tony, sounding drowsy already.

In the bathroom, Bruce was looking into the mirror for long seconds before he realized he was grinning like an idiot. He decided it was a good look for him.

When he got back out, Tony had heaved himself up to sitting, looking a little shocky. “My turn,” said Tony. “Also, your _dog._ ”

While Tony was in the bathroom, Bruce cracked open the door. Killer ran into him full-tilt.

“Do _not_ bug Tony,” Bruce whispered to him fiercely. Killer grunted in response and sneezed directly into his open eyes.

When Tony came back out, he said, “So, uh, am I going to get a speech about you being busy in the morning?”

“What? No.”

“So it’s cool if I sleep here?”

“God, yes. C’mere.” Bruce patted the bed. He’d pulled off the blanket that had an irreparable wet spot, but there was still bedding left.

Tony settled in, the lines on his forehead easing. “I might, uh. Flail.”

“I’ll survive,” mumbled Bruce, eyes drifting shut.

“Augh!”

“What?” Bruce jerked up. “What is it?”

“I did not,” said Tony slowly and with great care, “realize that Killer was in the bed.”

“Oh, shit. Should’ve warned you. He likes the blankets. Likes to dig.”

“He got, uh. Friendly. With his nose.”

“Killllllller,” groaned Bruce, hooking one arm around the terrier. “Get the hell up here. Stop terrorizing Daddy’s guest.”

“D—”

“ _I don’t say it on purpose, damn it._ ”

“Sure,” said Tony, chest heaving with laughter behind Bruce. “Sure.”

They fell asleep like that, the three of them; Tony first, his breaths evening out, getting deeper, then Killer, making little mewling noises as his paws started to twitch. And then, finally, warm and comfortable, skin pressed to skin all along his back, a warm furry lump still tucked under his arm, Bruce.

 

In the morning Tony’s cellphone rang. The ringtone was, horrifyingly enough, Piece of Me.

“What the fuck,” said Bruce, fumbling for his own phone. “What fucking time is it?”

“Shit, shit, sorry,” said Tony, lunging out of bed for the chair where his pants were. “Think it’s in my pocket—yeah, I have to take this.” He picked up. “Hi. Oh, hi, Pep. They do? Really? That’s fucking fantastic! Okay, tell him I’ll have the prototypes to him tonight, he can start in on them first thing tomorrow. You too. Yeah. Yeah, I did. _Yeah._ You too.”

He hung up and whooped.

“Good news?” drawled Bruce grimly.

“The best! We got the contract.”

“That’s great.”

“You bet it is. I’ve got to get in—shit, how _do_ you make a dog new legs? Okay, anyway, I’ve got to get going, if I’m going to get him the roughs by tonight—”

Bruce propped himself up on one elbow. “Wait, what? Make a dog legs?”

“Yeah.” Tony stopped in the middle of buttoning up his shirt, glancing up at Bruce in surprise. “You didn’t—I figured you’d Google us.”

“I didn’t. I just called.”

“Stark—I’m Tony Stark, Jesus, you probably don’t even know that, do you?”

“I didn’t.” Bruce sat up, drawing his knees up. “So it’s your company?”

“Yeah, I’m an engineer. Bioengineering. I work on veterinary solutions. It used to just be wheels, carts, that kind of thing, but the last couple of years we’ve been prepping to expand into implantable prosthetics. There’s a veterinary surgeon I work with, and some guys doing _amazing_ work in the UK, and we’re all kind of—we’re working on creating tech that will translate to humans, at some point, and. Did I really not tell you any of this?” He looked embarrassed, conflicted. “I can’t believe I didn’t talk about work at _all,_ I just, I guess I spend so much of my time on it—and anyway, we had better things to talk about—”

“So that was why you were interested in the sterilization potential for gamma radiation,” said Bruce. This was forcing a rapid reevaluation of Tony.

“Well, obviously. Anyway, we just got permission to test a new implant type we think is going to revolutionize the prosthetics industry on Sparky—you remember Sparky? The DoD is funding it, so. They have kind of a vested interest. I’m a little worried they’re going to try to build a Terminator with this tech, but it’ll take them years, anyway.”

Bruce propped his chin in his hand, staring at Tony.

“Do me a favor,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Tony, finishing up with his belt.

Bruce got up out of bed, naked, and it was like he’d given Tony an electric shock; Tony jolted and then held his ground, looking appreciatively, making no secret of it.

Bruce put a hand on the wall behind Tony and leaned in. Tony shuddered, eyes falling shut.

“Come back sometime,” said Bruce.

“Yes. Absolutely. I am completely on board with that. Small problem, I don’t have your number, or, for that matter, _your_ last name—”

“Banner. Give me your phone.” He put in his number, and Tony flushed a little as he wrapped his hand around Tony’s in handing it back.

Then he thought, _what the hell,_ and went in for a kiss. Tony froze for a second and then was kissing back, hands stuttering across Bruce’s face, digging in to Bruce’s hair.

When they finally let go, Tony had high spots of color on each cheek, and Bruce, still naked, didn’t bother trying to hide that he was hard again.

“God damn it,” said Tony.

“You really have to go in?”

“I do. Shit. I do. It’s going to take me all day—what are you doing tomorrow night? No, shit, not tomorrow, he’ll have preliminary results back. Tuesday? Look, what I’m saying is, I want to see you again, soon, _soon._ ”

“Tuesday’s good.”

When Tony left—another kiss later—it was with helpless backwards looks that Bruce felt pretty damn good about.

That night he got a text from Tony. _Quality lab time,_ he said, and there was a picture of a cluttered workbench. It made something in Bruce’s chest tighten.

 

Monday morning, he said to Natasha, “I suppose you knew Tony _builds legs_ for needy, cute animals.”

She hummed softly to herself. “I know lots of things.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged. “If you figured out on your own that you had something in common—”

“Well, he’s an engineer. It’s not that much in common.”

“As you say,” she said, maddeningly unconcerned.

“Is there anything else I should know about? Does he take care of widows and orphans in his spare time?”

“He designed the kennels at the shelter,” she said. “More hygienic _and_ comfortable for the animals.”

“God damn it.”

She grinned at him lopsidedly. “Does Killer approve?”

“Killer’s an asshole.”

“I take it that’s a yes.”

He leaned back, propping his feet up on her desk, ignoring the face she made.

“Yeah,” he said, and he felt the smile spread over his face, slow as molasses. “Killer approves.”

 

Tuesday night Tony showed up, a bag of crispy cod skin in one hand for Killer.

“You’re hired,” said Bruce, stepping back away from the door.

Tony ended up leaving the cod skins on the table. It took them a while to get to the bedroom that time.

 

By the time Tony moved in, he was saying it was really for Killer’s sake.

“A dog needs two parents,” he said to Bruce, seriously, and Bruce rolled his eyes and looped Killer’s leash around Tony’s neck, tugging a little before letting go.

“So get out there and dog-parent,” said Bruce. “By the way, it’s raining.”

“Fuck,” said Tony feelingly.

But the bed that had always felt a little too big finally felt like it was just the right size.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on my experience with marrying into the most absurdly dog-loving family that has ever existed and being indoctrinated into their madness. We have two pugs, who are both old and gross, and the scene with Killer shoving his butt in Bruce's face is DIRECTLY taken from the first time we ever let Brutus sleep on the bed with us (Christmas, 2010, it was traumatic). If you're from a city with the chain of pet stores I described you will know EXACTLY what I'm talking about with the weird black leather bondage dog models. BET YOU THOUGHT I MADE THAT UP. NOPE. Also, if you're interested in the idea of pets getting orthopedic implants, watch The Bionic Vet on Netflix, because I shamelessly ripped that off for this. I cried at like every episode but you need to know ALL OF THE PETS ARE OKAY AT THE END. Tony's Darmok and Jalad t-shirt is from [here](https://www.etsy.com/listing/238676237/darmok-and-jalad-at-tanagra-front-and?ref=related-1). Obviously, when Bruce and Tony get married after this story, Bruce proposes by attaching the ring box to Killer's collar, and Killer is their ringbearer at the wedding; he wears a bow tie. (Yes, I sewed bow ties for both our pugs for the wedding, and yes, I found ribbon for it that exactly matched the bridal attendants' ties. Why do you ask? DO I SEEM LIKE A NUTTY DOG PERSON? Because that's entirely accurate. I'm sitting here with a dog with foul, foul gas farting on me AS I TYPE.)


End file.
